A Woman of Valor, page 23
"I swear it, Betsy, on my grandmother's grave," he said, in a soothing tone. "I've even checked with the shipping department. They are expecting a large wooden crate from Egypt tomorrow. It is to be logged in as 'relics,' not to be opened unless the Secretary of State personally gives the order."
Finally, she was willing to accept the fact that he was telling her the truth.
"Then why did you tell me about it," she asked, "if Waller told you not to disclose it to another person?"
Clay took the pipe out of his pocket, added some fresh tobacco, and lit it up.
"Because, my dear Betsy, you hold the keys to the kingdom, and I mean that literally. Not only do you know in your head more about what March was doing than I, but you have a set of keys to every one of those locked cabinets in his office."
"In other words, you need my help."
"That's exactly it."
She was silent. Even though March was dead, she would feel guilty giving Clay access to his files. They were personal to March.
Clay sensed her reluctance.
"I'll lay it on the line, Betsy. I'm not asking you to do it because you like me. I don't think you do."
He paused to give her a chance to protest, but she was silent. He began talking in a harsher tone, sounding more self-confident.
"I'm asking you to do it because that's the only hope you have to bring to justice the people responsible for killing that demigod you worshipped."
She picked up her hands, opened them, and looked at her fingers again. Slowly, hesitantly, she reached into the purse that was sitting under her desk, near her feet, and pulled out a set of keys on a large round hook.
"The keys to the kingdom are yours," she said, tossing them in Clay's direction.
Then they walked into March's private office. Clay didn't dare sit behind March's desk. He slumped his large frame into an uncomfortable small brown leather chair and listened while Betsy described to him what she understood to be the status of the investigation that March and Yaacobi had been conducting.
"So, you see they had pretty well zeroed in on Charlie Pritchard as the one who had been leaking information," Betsy said.
Clay had a quizzical look on his face.
"Well, why didn't they just haul him in? They had enough to get an indictment."
"I heard Mr. March talking about that with the Israeli one day. They wanted to get the source, to find out who was paying Pritchard."
"And that's why Jonathan went to Geneva?"
"Exactly. But I don't know what he did there or whom he saw."
Clay raised his eyebrows. In her own quiet way, sitting behind that typewriter, Betsy had managed to keep track of what March did very well.
"What about Egypt?" Clay asked.
"That I don't know. He must have learned something in Geneva that led him there."
"I didn't think the well would ever run dry," Clay said, trying to add some levity.
Betsy didn't even crack a small smile. She was still too distraught from the news about March's death.
"Okay," Clay said, holding up the ring of keys, "show me which key operates which lock. We'll see what other pieces we can put together."
Betsy's face tightened up. Talking about March's work was one thing, but going through his drawers and files was quite another. She wasn't up to that, not yet at least.
"I'll show you which key fits where," she said. "But then I would like to excuse myself."
Clay understood from her eyes what was going through her mind.
"Yes, of course," he mumbled, feeling guilty that his compelling desire to learn everything he could about the investigation had overcome his sensitivity for her feelings.
After Betsy retreated to her desk outside of the inner sanctum, closing the door behind her, Clay spent the next two hours looking through files, making careful mental notes of what evidence was where, but trying not to disturb anything. He looked over the copies of Pritchard's bank statements. Then he spent a long time studying the detailed reports about Pritchard that the field investigators had prepared.
Clipped to one of the reports was a small photograph of Pritchard. Clay wrapped the picture carefully in plastic and tucked it into his wallet.
Then he emerged from March's office and approached Betsy who was typing furiously at her desk.
"Just some reports for Mr. March that I never had a chance to complete," she said grimly, choking back the tears.
"I'm sorry to disturb you again," Clay said apologetically. "I have only one other question to ask you."
She stopped typing.
"Yaacobi's boss in Israel," Clay said. "What is his name?"
"Motti Elon," she replied, "the director general of an Israeli agency called Shai. He has an office both in Tel Aviv and in Jerusalem."
She resumed typing.
Clay stood next to her, thinking for a moment.
"I'm going overseas for a few days," he said. "If Waller calls, you don't know where I am."
Clay didn't need a response from Betsy. He knew that she would never say anything to Waller again after how he had handled March's death.
Her devotion had been so great to March. He had so dominated her life. Clay knew that Betsy would finish typing his reports, perhaps organize his papers, clean out her own desk, pack her bags, and leave Washington.
Chapter 33
Leora paced around Motti's office, cutting and recutting the same path with her feet. The bright red color on her face gave her a healthy look. Motti watched her restlessness with some amusement.
"I told you that a few days at Eilat in the sun would do you good."
"Do me good, I'm going out of my mind."
He smiled weakly, remembering that he had felt the same way when he was her age, but no more. In the last couple of days Motti had made a decision. After this investigation was over, he was retiring. He also planned to make a major effort to have Leora appointed as his successor. He didn't dare mention that to her now, knowing that she would tell him that was ridiculous. But he hoped that when it was over, when she had avenged Yaacobi's death, she might take a desk job if it happened to be the job of director general.
"You're really telling me that I'll have to work with this Clay character?" she said soberly. "Ernest Clay? Ernest, what an odd name."
"Yes, that's what I'm telling you."
"But I don't work well with anyone. You know that."
He raised his hand to stop her.
"We've gone through all that," Motti said. "Let's not start again. This time you have no choice. I'm happy that Clay asked for one of our people to work with him."
"Well, what do you know about him?"
"He's not long on experience. He hasn't been in the field before."
"Oh, thanks. Thanks a lot."
"From what I've been able to learn, he's very bright, a sharp mind, learns quickly." Motti tried to recall the other information he had gathered since Clay's call yesterday. "He's a lawyer and an administrator, first at the Criminal Division of Justice, then as March's assistant."
"That's what I call a background," she said sarcastically.
"Don't laugh. In the United States they think a lawyer can do anything."
She was silent.
"Like I said, he's intelligent, excellent records at Ivy League schools, history degree at Princeton, law degree at Harvard, fine old New York family, and hardworking—a thirty-two-year-old bachelor. What else do you want to know?"
"I'll tell you what I want to know. I want to know why we're saddled with some blueblood Yankee. Why the hell couldn't we have gotten someone good from CIA or FBI to work with?"
"I've already told you that twice," Motti said, keeping his patience and repeating what he learned from his telephone conversation with Clay. "We can pick up with Clay and maybe get something fast, or we can spend the next month bucking the American political system and having Waller throw every roadblock at us."
"It's not much of a choice."
"The world's not perfect," Motti said. "I work with what I have."
"That's what Dan once told me," she said softly.
Motti had heard that statement from Dan, too. He cursed himself for not using more care in his choice of words. He didn't want to get Leora started again.
There was a buzzing on the intercom.
"Ernest Clay is downstairs," the secretary said.
"Go get him," Motti replied.
Then he turned to Leora with a serious look on his face.
"I should tell you no guns in the United States. But I won't."
"Damn right you won't. That's probably what you told Dan. Look where it got him."
He pretended that he hadn't heard her words. Then he began lecturing her.
"But I will tell you, please, not one more international scandal like Paris or Copenhagen."
* * *
The first thing that struck Leora about Clay was the physical contrast between him and Motti. The Israeli was aging, heavyset with gray hair. The American was youthful, thin with brown hair, and a large bushy brown beard. He had a serious look on his face. Motti was wearing a plain white cotton shirt open at the neck, no jacket, no tie. Clay had on a blue pinstripe suit, complete with vest, gold chain, and button-down collar. His metal-framed glasses made him seem like a university professor—thoughtful, competent, with a keen analytical mind. He puffed contentedly on a pipe while Motti chain-smoked cigarettes. Motti talked quickly, running his sentences together. Clay spoke slowly, precisely, carefully selecting his words.
Five minutes into the meeting, Clay was still explaining how he had always wanted to visit Israel before, but he had never had the opportunity. I wish he'd get to the point already, Leora thought glumly.
Then Clay turned to Yaacobi's death, describing carefully in minute detail every bit of information he had pieced together about the investigation that March and Yaacobi had been conducting. Despite all of her initial reactions, as Clay spoke, Leora began to grasp that behind this calm unemotional exterior Clay did have a sharp analytical mind. But how could that possibly make up for his inexperience? The thought of providing on-the-job training to Clay was so loathsome to her that she wondered how she would manage. Still, Motti had made it crystal-clear. Working with Clay was the only way that she could go forward with the investigation of Yaacobi's death. You were right, Dan, she thought, the world is never perfect. We work with what we have.
Motti explained to Clay that Leora would be working with him. The American tried to conceal his surprise that it was a woman, but his bushy brown eyebrows raised on their own in a knee-jerk reaction and he took a deep breath. Leora's senses were sharp. She instantly perceived his reaction. She wanted to interrupt Motti and say that balls have nothing to do with being a good investigator, but she was afraid of Motti's reaction. Motti's tone suggested that it was Be-Nice-to-American Day at Shai headquarters.
Finally, Motti and Clay finished their general discussion, and Motti told Leora to take Clay down to her office. They could decide on their own strategy without him.
There was more handshaking. Then she led Clay down the long barren corridor past old battered wooden file cases that had never found a home. As they walked, Leora decided that Clay's beard bothered her. It gave his face a professorial look that contributed little.
Inside her office, Clay began with some more formalities as to how much he thought he would enjoy working with her. Leora quickly dismissed those.
"Okay, buddy," she said. "The question is, Where do we start this thing?"
The term "buddy" bothered him, but he didn't say anything to her.
"My suggestion," Clay said tentatively, "is that we start in Switzerland. Let's try to find out whom March was seeing there. Maybe we can pick up the trail and find out what carried him to Egypt."
Leora had her own ideas. She fired back quickly. "There's one thing we better do before we go to Switzerland."
"What's that?" Clay asked, puzzled.
"Let's go back to Washington and check everything there. We may be able to pick up some other evidence that will make our job in Switzerland easier."
"But I've already assembled everything in Washington," Clay protested.
"A second look is sometimes useful," she said, thinking about Motti and trying to be tactful.
Clay was too smart for that.
"You don't think I've found everything. You think I've missed some things."
She looked at him for a minute.
"Yes. If you prefer to put it that way."
He was silent.
"Look, buddy, don't get pissed. It's just that I've been in this business a lot longer than you have. I might see something that couldn't have meant anything to you."
"Please don't call me buddy," he said, politely but firmly.
"What do you want me to call you?"
"Ernest."
"Ernest, then. My instincts tell me Washington first."
Even as she said it, she wasn't sure why she felt that way.
He thought about her suggestion for a moment.
"I'll do it your way," he said, making it clear that he had accepted her idea because it had merit and not out of blind subservience to her experience.
Later when they were ready to leave her office for the airport, Leora suddenly remembered about the piece of white paper with the number that had been in Dan's pocket when he died. She considered telling Clay about it, but decided against it. Maybe later, if he has to know, she thought to herself.
When Clay stopped in the men's room before they left, Leora quickly took the small pistol from her desk and tucked it into her jacket. Motti be damned, she thought. Clay's probably not armed and the two of them would be sitting pigeons. And with Clay's identification no customs agent will ever check for firearms.
* * *
When the Boeing 707 touched down at Dulles Airport, the last of the snow that had fallen the night of Yaacobi's death was melting. Christmas decorations were visible everywhere in the airline terminal.
"This was your idea," Clay said to her as they got into his car. "Where do you want to go first?"
"Yaacobi's house first," she said automatically.
He looked puzzled.
"Why there?"
"You wouldn't understand," she answered morosely.
They rode in silence. It was a dreary moody silence. He glanced at her through the corner of his eye. She looked despondent, sticking near the door, her eyes closed.
He turned on the car radio to WTOP, one of Washington's all-news stations. She seemed oblivious to the sounds that it brought into the car. She only opened her eyes and leaned forward when the announcer said:
"Repeating again the hour's top story. The Israeli Prime Minister will definitely be going to Egypt next week to meet with the Egyptian President at Ismailia. The meeting is scheduled for Christmas Day. Already scores of Israeli journalists have begun to invade Egypt. They have been given a friendly welcome at Cairo Airport after the thirty years of bitter war that divided the two countries."
"Now moving along to other items in the news..."
Clay could tell that she had been listening. He flipped off the radio.
"What do you think, Leora," he asked, "real peace or not?"
"I'm no politician. And I'm no prophet," she replied curtly. She was in no mood to become embroiled in a long political discussion with Clay.
They rode in silence the rest of the way to Bethesda.
When they reached the house, Clay quickly said, "The police checked the house. They didn't find anything."
He stopped the car across the street.
"Please wait here," she said. "Let me do this myself." Before he had a chance to respond, she was out of the car and slammed the door. He remained behind the wheel, wondering what she hoped to find.
She walked slowly around the house, looking at it from the outside. In the back, she noticed a first-floor window open a crack. It was held by an old rusty lock. She forced it up, ripping the lock from its hinge. Then she climbed inside.
The house was absolutely quiet. But it hadn't been that long. The odors of life were still there. She walked slowly, trying to imagine how he had been when he had lived here, trying to place his physical form in these surroundings. What was she really looking for? she wondered. Was she really looking for some clue to his assassination, or did she have some other purpose in coming to Washington? Was she looking for some small token, some object that confirmed to her that he had remembered her as much as she had remembered him, that he had loved her as she had loved him, some tangible sign that even at the end he had thought about her? She found nothing downstairs.
Slowly she trudged up the wooden staircase, past the boys' room, the basketballs, the posters of football players on the wall, the portable television set, and there at the end of the hall, forbidding, the door to the master bedroom, closed.
The sound of her shoes clicking on the wooden floor sent an eerie sound throughout the house as she walked down the corridor.
She kicked open the door to the master bedroom. It was a small room. The bed dominated it. On each side was a small wooden dresser. He made love here with her, she thought. She looked at the three pictures on the dresser—Dan with Zipora, Dan with the boys, Zipora by herself. Where were the pictures of Dan with Leora in Paris, she wondered, the pictures from the album that she had imagined back in Denmark?
She walked out of the room and kicked the door shut with the back of her heel. It slammed, sending the noise through the house.
She left the house through the window, just as she entered, and trudged across the street. Clay was sitting in the car reading a newspaper.
When she reached the curb across the street, suddenly she saw it lying there. She wasn't even looking for it. It just struck her eye. The small black plastic sword glistened in the bright rays of the sun. It had settled through the snow, lying at the point where Cherev had dropped it.
She picked it up slowly, wiped the dirt off, and tucked it into the pocket of her coat.
"What was that?" Clay asked her when she got back into the car.
